


Drag My Teeth Across Your Chest

by orphan_account



Series: Howl at Hallowed Ground [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Darling Pan - Freeform, F/M, Porn With Plot, Power Play, Smutty, dark take on wendy's character, pendy, sort of, wendy/peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 15:35:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wendy Moira Angela Darling has been playing dangerous games in Neverland for a long time. Peter tries out a new dance, and she matches him step-for-step. Smutty, fairly dark-ish. Cunning!Wendy Possessive!Peter</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drag My Teeth Across Your Chest

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there, everyone! So, this is my first contribution to the Darling Pan ship and the OUAT fandom, so please be kind :)
> 
> Just to clarify: this is an AU in which Peter never sent Wendy back to London, and allowed her to be part of the Lost Boys. I have this headcanon where, if this did happen, she wouldn't be as innocent as we see in the TV show, but something much more manipulative and cunning. I also got the feeling that Wendy is a lot more resourceful than she lets on, and that her natural compassion allows her to learn Neverland- and Peter- over the years. So, she'll be kinda OOC... sorry about that.

Drag My Teeth Across Your Chest

There's something exhilarating in running away from him, even if she knows he'll catch her. He _always_ catches her.

Wendy can feel the adrenaline pounding through her veins, like liquid lightning, tearing laughter from her mouth and breath from her lungs. She whips past branches, ferns, trees- they leap up to meet her but this is a game she's played for a _very_ long time, so their stretching limbs are no match for the grace of her feet. The forest is as untrustworthy and malevolent as _him,_ but nobody knows Peter Pan like she does. Nobody can manipulate, plant thoughts in his head and press his buttons like Wendy Moira Angela Darling can.

He was festered from the bones of the forest, the wickedest heart of it all- yes, he was birthed from a woman once but his roots were always set in Neverland- but Wendy has spent decades testing his limits and knows exactly how and where to poke him.

Her feet pound against the forest floor, erratic as her heartbeat as she twists and turns and careens away from the evil fingers of the trees. She shrieks with laughter, eyes streaming, and knows that the sound will only serve to anger him further.

No matter. He humiliated her in front of the Lost Boys; his punishment is her escape.

She can hear his faint roar of fury in return and she bares her teeth in what could pass as a grin, to her, but perhaps this is her wilder side clawing to the surface.

In the stories, Wendy is the mouse, and he is the cat.

Here, though, in this nightmarish mockery of a child's tale, Wendy is something much fiercer.

" _WENDY_ ," his incensed call splinters through the dark dampness of the forest, " _WENDY_!"

She stops. Smiles. This is the best bit. He's always so _angry_ when he catches her, his face the most hilarious shade of crimson. He drags her back to camp, but he gets flustered and erratic when he's mad, so his words don't hold the same sting, and she's free to laugh at him. A fitting response, she thinks.

A nearby tree extends its limb towards her, an attempt to capture, but she grasps onto it and hauls herself up. Sticky green sap trickles through the gaps in her fingers, but she pays it no mind. It's the red stuff she has to look out for. _Green is good, red is blood_ , she thinks.

She uses the calluses on her palms and heels to scramble up the thick bough and into the canopy. It takes her less than thirty seconds, experienced as she is. Ninety years- give or take- of clambering up these malicious things has strengthened the muscles in her thighs and abdomen, given her a mentality of _grit your teeth and do it_.

Wendy longs for her brothers, for Bae, but she owes the pure strength of will that erupts within her to Peter's playground.

Neverland has changed her heart. She's no longer full of fairytales. The games she plays now aren't for children- they are darker, of the mind and its sins. She toys with temptations, pulls strings that aren't meant to be pulled.

She hears the soft rustling of leaves that signals Peter's arrival; his feet have set upon the ground. She sits on a thick branch, her feet dangling over the edge and nightgown collected about her thighs. It is an un-ladylike way to sit, yet Wendy cannot bring herself to care. There is dirt between her toes, green sap on her fingers, twigs in her dress and not a worry in her blackened soul.

She thinks that, if she were to take it out of her chest, the edges of her heart would be dark with soot. She is still a believer, but perhaps she believes in the shadows as much as the light.

"Wendy," he warns, low and dangerous.

She bites her lip to keep from calling back to him, jeering at him as he jeers at her. The longer she draws this out, the longer he is angry. He procured the demons from her soul and spread them out in the open, for all the Lost Boys to see and they laughed at her.

 _Pretty little mouse, longing for a kiss_ , he'd taunted, _longing for Husband? For Bae?_

At the mere mention of her friend's name she'd lost the last ounces of control she'd had over her temper and had lashed out, shrieking, clawing at his face with bitten nails. She'd left red marks on his cheeks. Tears stained her own. He'd laughed and caught her wrists in his long-boned hands, drawing her to his chest.

 _Would he love you now?_ Peter had asked, smirking down at her. _Would he love you now, with your black heart?_

Wendy rotated her wrists (Tink had taught her, after seeing the horrid bruises on her arms) and broke his hold. She'd wanted to be strong, to hiss _I don't need love my heart is gone_ but a sob escaped her bitter mouth, more furious than sad.

Peter has a way of looking to the very marrow of her, as if he knows exactly what she is thinking. He knows exactly what to say to make her weep, to make her rage, to make her _laugh._ She knows him better than anyone else, but he knows her to the core.

This is her only cruelty.

She had waited until they were all out exploring, falling behind when Peter was distracted. The mermaids always preened when he was near, and their obvious adoration for his looks ensured Wendy a gap in his concentration.

She'd slipped away, unnoticed, while the sea-creatures had flipped their hair prettily at him. Wendy rather likes the mermaids, or the idea of them, anyway. She can now appraise the idea of being so beautiful that men won't think twice of going to their deaths, as long as they are praised with a kiss from you.

That kind of power is to be relished, she thinks. In a place where Peter is in control, where he is King ( _there are no kings in Neverland_ , he said to her once, but she knows that even without a crown Peter rules all), the authority to lure someone to their demise with a smile is not so repulsive an idea as she may have once thought.

It hadn't taken him long to realise she was gone, though. Wendy has long suspected that the singing of the wind through the tall branches of the willow-trees sounds like something more akin to speech to the ears of Peter Pan, and they had been singing particularly loudly as she tore along the forest floor. Neverland speaks to him, but occasionally she can interpret the whispers, predict them in a way that even Felix cannot.

"Where are you?" Peter asks. "Wendy-bird, _where are you?_ "

She can hear the dry cracking of the bark on the trees as they respond to his demand, leaning towards him when she will not. They creak and groan like old men, like parched lips. The forest is at his beck and call, it _is_ him and the soil of it lives in his bones. The mermaids call him _forest-born,_ convinced that a being for whom the trees bend and the grass sways cannot be of human stock.

Wendy calls him Peter, and nothing else.

He calls her Wendy-bird, Darling, _mouse._

She is no mouse. She may have been meek, and mild, once- but now they are nothing more than masks to hide the venom within.

Peter is walking slowly round the crop of trees she hides within, trailing his long fingers against the bark. "Darling…" he murmurs, his tone a mockery of sweetness.

He knows she's there. Game over.

Wendy sighs. "Yes, Peter?"

He looks up at her, gives her one of his sharp smiles. "Come home, Wendy-bird."

"My home isn't here." She retorts, but shimmies down the tree anyway. He's there to offer her a hand, but she kicks it out the way with a bare foot. This earns her a scowl.

"You've been _here_ longer than you've been _there_." Peter reminds her as she leaps the last few feet to land beside him.

She wipes her sap-stained hands on her dress. It's new- he gave it to her only a week before, and she's ruined it already (he notices this with a twist of his mouth). "Home is where the heart is, I suppose." She says breezily.

His returning scowl is soothing as cool water. "Your heart-"

"Isn't here."

His lips thin.

Wendy is not naïve, not anymore. She could only be a fool if she hadn't noticed Peter's possessiveness over her. He wants her to love him with her whole heart, even if he doesn't love her back. She is a trophy to him, but the collection can only be complete with the adoration in her eyes that the mermaids hold, and she shall never give him that.

They never address the topic, even though they are both fully aware of the circumstances. It is a game, like everything else, a dance to be performed. He steps forward, she steps around him, but _never_ back.

He gifts her with a dress, she ruins it without a care.

He leaves forget-me-nots on the doorstep of her little house, she crushes them underfoot every day until they disintegrate.

It's somewhat amusing, to Wendy. He can never say the words outright, never say _I want you,_ can only send convoluted signals to her with gifts and innuendos- he's like a little boy. That used to be fitting, but now it seems odd on his frame.

Interestingly enough, he seems to be stuck- he's grown, over the past few years, and so has everyone else, but he seems to be between boyhood and something older. His shoulders are broader, his arms stronger. There is a hunger in his gaze when he looks at her now, a heat behind his smirk, something she delights in adding to their dance.

She can make him blush and stutter with nothing but the creamy skin of her décolletage, a hand brushing against his leg.

Wendy, herself, is older. Her limbs are longer, her words sharper, her breasts small but full and the dark curls at the apex of her thighs are no longer thin and downy but thick and coarse. From what she remembers of London society, she is now ready to be courted. She is a twisted mockery of a Lady, now. She runs through forests and bites as much as she smiles, and her dances aren't waltzes but rather dark, twisted steps of desire.

He's glaring at her, his dark mood clouding his eyes like baited breath. The forest stirs around them, humming with energy. He moves closer.

She goes to step away from him, to go back to her little house or maybe to Tink's for tea, but he catches her with an arm about her waist and _pushes_.

Wendy stumbles back, catches herself with the help of a few complicated steps, but he's already _there_ , pressing her back to the tree.

He's close, now, so close and she hasn't prepared for this she doesn't know the dance- doesn't know what to do when he's pinned her arms above her head and his knee is wedged between her legs- doesn't know how to get out of it- doesn't know if she _wants_ to, when that curious but too-familiar ache at the core of her thighs starts up at the contact. Heat unfurls in her belly, flowers in the spring.

"Darling," Peter murmurs, his lips ghosting over her cheek, "I'm not finished." His voice is sure, cocky, but she can tell he has even less idea of what he's doing than she does.

She shudders, but it's not entirely from fear. Does Wendy even _feel_ fear, anymore? Anger, yes. Hatred, of course. But she cannot remember the last time Peter scared her. Perhaps the tumultuous beating of her heart has nothing to do with panic. "Stop." She tries to order him, but it comes out breathy and wanton.

They're close enough that, when he smiles, she can see the dimples in his cheeks in excruciating detail.

He uses the length of his fingers to trap both her wrists in one hand, trailing the other down her arms, her face, her neck, to the front of her dress. He bends to press his lips to her throat while he slowly undoes the ties, kissing her trembling skin.

"You've been teasing me, Wendy-bird," he murmurs against her neck, "you've been making me want you."

 _I want you_ , his eyes say, and the electricity of the phrase makes her move against his knee, desperate for friction.

His lips are clumsy, whisper-soft, but it's enough to send a coil of heat rippling through her. "How?" she asks, even though she knows. But while it's one thing to know, it's another to hear it from his lips. She wants him to admit it.

She wants to hear him say the words, describe to her exactly what she's been doing, what he wants her to do. She wants him to spill his desires, to give her ultimate power over him.

Peter nips at her collarbone, and she clamps her lips down on the squeak that threatens to escape. "You know- you _know_." He moves his leg from between hers, and she nearly keens at the loss.

"Tell me." Her voice is far from steady.

His fingers undo the last of the ties, and her dress falls, open, to the floor between them. He lets go of her arms, shock registering on his face.

She's not wearing undergarments. Well, of course she isn't. It's too hot, far too hot, for anything as cumbersome as petticoats under a _nightgown_. At least she wears knickers.

He wets his lips. Her eyes flick down to his pants, and she can see that he's just as affected by the whole thing as she is.

She clears her throat nervously, and this seems to jolt him back into the real world. The shocked expression is gone, replaced by smug superiority, in a matter of seconds.

"Expecting this, were you?" Peter asks, reaching out to skim his fingers along the smooth expanse of her belly.

"Don't be stupid." She tries to snap, but her voice is strangled.

He comes closer. His fingers trail lower, just above the line of her knickers, and she tilts her hips in a silent plea for him to go lower. The forest is singing louder now, almost as loud as the blood rushing in her ears. "You want me, too."

There's not much use denying it, now. Her chest is heaving, her heart is thrumming like a hummingbird against her ribs, and her knickers are embarrassingly wet. She says nothing, and his hand stills.

 _Ah_. She understands the game, now, and he's played her into a corner. Her brain is foggy, and she finds she doesn't care if she's giving in, as long as he just goes lower. "Yes," she finally blurts out, eyes blazing, " _yes_."

Peter's returning grin is like a razor. He hooks his thumbs in her underwear and pulls them down, over her thighs, letting them drop to her ankles.

She doesn't have time to kick them off before his hand is cupping her mound, before one of his thin fingers is slipping through the dark curls to her soft heat.

Wendy can't hold back a breathy moan, and she winds her arms around his neck, pressing her naked chest to his. His other hand comes up to tangle itself in her riotous hair, pulling her head back roughly and slanting his lips over hers.

The kiss is clumsy, more a clashing of teeth and tongue and desperation, but the steady stroking of her core and the way he breathes _Wendy-bird_ into her mouth like a prayer makes her skin tingle. He kisses her til she's dizzy, til she can barely stand, murmuring words of ownership and need against her lips. He tastes like the plump purple berries found on bushes near the mermaid's lagoon, like sweat, like pounding hearts and sharp teeth. She bites his lip, _hard_ , demanding that he knows she's not giving up without a fight. He may have boxed her into a corner but Wendy is no stranger to clawing her way out of tight spots.

She tastes iron in her mouth, but he doesn't care. Violence makes his blood sing, and he chuckles against her lips before kissing her with renewed vigour. It almost hurts, that bruising clash of mouths, but stopping it would mean losing.

Wendy grasps his wrist, guiding it to the knot of nerves she can feel _throbbing_ , swollen with arousal.

Peter pulls away from the kiss, studying her expression, when his fingers brush against the spot and she cries out his name, partly in shock but mostly in pleasure. He looks curious, but a smug smile curls at the corners of his lips. His hand unwinds itself from her hair and to her breast, passing his thumb over her nipple. He chews his lip in thought, then leans forward to taste it. He gives it a long, good lick- he _never_ does anything tentatively- eliciting a shaky exhale from her lungs. She arches her back, pressing her breast into his mouth and keening.

"Oh," Wendy gasps. She claws at him, desperate to feel _more_ , even if it is only skin under nails, and twists her fingers in his hair, pulling at the thick brown strands.

His tongue swirls against the pebbled flesh, lapping against it until it's hard and soaked in his saliva. Wendy rocks her hips and pulls at his hair, bringing his head up lick his neck. His pulse is hammering underneath her mouth, and she can practically _feel_ the rumbling groan in his throat. His excitement is an edge upon which she can cling, something she can dig her fingernails into in order to keep from falling.

He presses the fingers of his other hand harder, again and again, against the bundle of nerves, and it feels as if something is building in her belly. It feels as if a star is exploding. Her breaths come in shuddering gasps, in sobs, and it's all she can do to focus on teasing the skin of his neck with her teeth. She nips, then licks, nips and licks her way up to his jaw, where she presses soft kisses up to his ear.

A shiver wracks through him, and Wendy knows she's nowhere near to having the upper hand, but she's one step closer than she was before.

It's a tug-of-war between pursuing her own pleasure, or feeling him shatter beneath her hands. Mindlessness, or upmost control.

Wendy slides one of her hands down from his shoulder, down his chest. She wants to undo his buttons, make him as naked as she is, bite his skin until he bleeds, but she doesn't think she has much time before she loses the game. So, she moves past the tempting expanse of leanly-muscular chest and straight to the belt of his pants. She tugs it, once, twice, until it comes loose, and it's easy then to slip her hand inside his trousers and wrap it around his- what had Tink called it? _Cock_.

The word is vulgar, but in this game Wendy knows there is no room for primness.

She wraps her hand around his cock, and he convulses and groans, but his hand does not falter, so neither does hers.

Wendy tries to recall the crude stories Tink told her over tea, ones that sent them spiralling into giggles- but her mind is… muddled. The pleasure washing through her is building, so she decides to learn from experience.

A thumb moving over the tip of it makes Peter whine, and he retaliates with a long, smooth stroke of his finger. She plants a kiss to his earlobe, feeling his heartbeat quicken, as the motion sends sparks through her abdomen. Wendy begins to move her hand, slowly, up and down the velvety skin of his cock, faster when his hips thrust forward of their own accord. But, as his pleasure builds his hand quickens, and soon the edge she has built for herself crumbles away, leaving her to fall down, down, down.

The sensation is like crashing waves, like a rubber band snapping, and she collapses against him, hips bucking helplessly on his hand, muffling her whimpers in his shoulder. Her hand moves from his cock to grip his hip, but he doesn't seem to care.

He shouldn't- he's won.

Peter lets her ride it out, pressing open-mouthed kisses along her neck. " _Mine_ ," he mumbles, and she can't summon the strength to protest.

He lets her stay in his arms for minutes afterwards, before positioning her, gently, on the ground. Her whole body is thrumming, her limbs pleasantly sore. He's crouched next to her as she lies back on her elbows, watching. His trousers are still loose, and she can see the thick, hard cock, glistening with something she doesn't know the name of.

He examines his hand, coated in her pleasure. Before she can stop him, he brings his index finger to his lips and slides out his tongue to taste the sticky, briny fluid.

"Peter-" she exclaims, in disgust, but he holds her gaze as he sucks slowly on the digit.

His lips are wet and cherry red when he takes it from his mouth, and it shouldn't be as inviting as it is. He quirks a brow, shoots her one of his knife-like smirks. "You're pretty, when you come." He drawls, and something strums low in her abdomen at his tone.

 _Come_. How does he know that word? Tink would tell her if Peter had been asking about things like that. Has he been listening to the pirates? It sounds so innocent, compared with what the word means. It sounds… purer, somehow, than the shameless groaning and pleasure that it entails.

Peter leans forward and kisses her before she can show her surprise, his thumbs bruising her hips. She tastes something else on her tongue, this time, something other than the berries and sweat. With a jolt, she realises it's _her_ , her sticky juices- and that knowledge makes her sigh into his mouth, before she can stop herself.

She feels his grin, cutting like glass. The hands on her hips loosen.

This is her chance. She kicks at his thigh, making his supporting knee collapse underneath him and pushes him onto his back.

Peter Pan is quicker than most, but Wendy Moira Angela Darling has never been _most_. So, when she straddles his hips and pops open the first two buttons of his shirt, he can't do much but sneer at her.

He goes to place a hand on her waist, but she slaps it away. " _Don't touch me,_ " she hisses.

She's in control, now. She undoes the rest of his shirt, pulling it down his arms roughly.

"Bit- bit late for that," he snorts, but his voice is unsteady when she leans down to trace a path from his neck to his abdomen with hot, open-mouthed kisses.

"I _meant_ ," she grits out, "don't touch me _now_."

She moves lower on his legs, reaching to tug his pants down to his knees.

His cock stands, erect. Intimidating, almost.

Peter catches her eyeing it up and lets loose a loud, obnoxious laugh. "You scared now, mouse?"

She glares at him, then hits back by placing a long, wet lick from the base, near the dense thicket of coarse dark hair, to the tip.

His head thuds back to the ground, and his hips jerk as he gives a desperate shout. Wendy leans over him, until they are nose to nose.

"I," she seethes, "am not _scared_ of _anything_. Least of all _you_."

Peter stares up at her, dark eyes unfathomable, panting. She expects him to sneer, to toss cruel words in her face, but instead he leans up on his elbows and touches his mouth to hers in a soft caress. It's chaste, and his mouth is closed, but it makes her heartbeat quicken.

Wendy jerks back as if she's been burned, furious. He's using the soft touches that she craves from the Husband she dreams of to confuse her, to knock her off course, and _it will not work_.

His expression is hurt, but it's a façade- it _has_ to be a façade- and she lands her next strike by taking him into her mouth.

She'd be lying if she says she knows what to do; the only 'lessons' she has to go on are Tink's exploits. So when she hollows her cheeks and swirls her tongue round the head of his cock, she's improvising.

Peter doesn't seem to be complaining at her lack of experience, though. She moves her head up and down along his shaft and he moans, his hips bucking, but she digs her fingernails into the skin there and they stop.

She takes her mouth from him with an unrefined _pop,_ and says, "Don't move."

He nods at her, eyes glazed over and probably the most complacent she's ever seen him.

Wendy licks him again, this time taking her time to suck and kiss and lick as she pleases. He makes rough, guttural noises that send heat to her core, and his fingers twitch spasmodically. She looks up at him, and he's watching her at work, his mouth slightly open and his eyes hooded.

His hair sticks up in wild clumps from their earlier tryst against the tree, his mouth red and bruised, purple marks all along his throat and jaw from her teasing teeth. He looks undone, and Wendy's centre clenches at the sight.

She takes him in her mouth once more, her eyes never straying from his (she wants to watch him crash and burn), and hums with pleasure when she sees his expression become desperate.

" _Wendy_ -" he chokes out, and then a shudder goes through him and he calls her name again, hips rutting and his cock hitting the back of her throat.

She gags, reels back, and hot, thick spurts of white fluid hit her chest. It's a mess, but she doesn't care because Peter is barely breathing, lying on the floor with his arms outspread and his body bared to her, beaten.

Wendy leans forward, her naked breasts brushing against him, and sinks her teeth into the flesh of his chest. This brings him back to life, yowling.

She releases him, and sits back on his hips. She can feel his cock underneath her. There is a bite mark just below his left collarbone, already blossoming into a bruise.

He scowls at her. "What was _that_ for?" he demands.

Wendy brushes her fingers over the mark. "You moved." She says, simply, but they both know it is much more than that.

It's a sign of ownership, a declaration to Neverland that Peter is hers, now. She was so, _so_ behind at first- the steps were new, the dance foreign- but she has taken him apart with the touch of her lips, put him back together again as something different and the thought makes her heart beat wildly with a sense of glory, of the win.

He's lost the game.

He doesn't seem to mind much, though. He reaches up and brushes his thumb over her lip. She knows she should turn her head away, but finds herself leaning into the touch. She's high on her victory, high on the knowledge that she owns Peter Pan.

She knows it's a desperate grab for power, but his gaze is soft and content, so she lets him. For now.

Peter sits up, sliding an arm about her waist to keep her from falling back (as if she'd ever allow such a thing), and settles with her in the circle of his legs. Her thighs are splayed, either side of his chest, her bare buttocks in the grass. His shirt is still on his arms, and she tugs it back on for him without thinking. She tries to make it look business-like, detached, but her fingers stray over the wiry muscle in his arms and he smirks rakishly.

He _knows_ , anyway. She may have won but there is no mistaking the frantic, pleading noises he drew from her lips or the fact that she came _first_ , in _his_ arms.

She won the war, but Peter was the victor of at least one battle.

"You went swimming." He says, out of the blue, and she shoots him a questioning look.

"What?"

"You wanted to know how you were teasing me," he replies, cupping her breast in one of his large hands, "and I'm telling you. Last month, you were swimming."

"I go swimming lots." She snaps, ignoring how _good_ that feels, how the warmth from his fingers leeches into her skin.

"I don't always see you, though."

She's painfully aware of how open she is to him, her legs spread wide. "So?"

He flicks his thumb over her nipple. She fights to keep her breathing level, her gaze cool and disinterested. "I saw you… no clothes," his voice becomes a soft croon as his other hand trails down to her hot centre, " _wet_."

"Wet." Wendy tries to make the word come out deadpan, but his fingers are already sliding through the dense hair of her mound and to its core, stroking the sensitive flesh, and it comes out as a breathy sigh.

He kisses her slowly, luxuriously, full of smugness that is completely out-of-place. "Very." He purrs. "Wet and pretty and _naked_ … you knew I was there."

Wendy bares her teeth at him. Yes, she'd known. The forest always acts a certain way when he's near, as if it's stirring, something that he doesn't know and will _never_ know, not from her. Wendy had seen the trees on the edge of her private pool tremble in his wake, and she'd been so sick of his taunts. She had wanted to make him _squirm_ , like he made her when he stared at her lips or legs. When he brushed his knuckles over her cheek. When he sent her a searching look over the campfire or sucked the berry juice from his fingers.

So she had leaned back on the rock she sat upon, and trailed her fingers up and over her breasts, rubbing her nipples and staring into the trees where she knew he would be sitting, watching. "I knew."

Peter bites his lip, and slides a finger _into_ her, and her nails dig into his arms. "You touched yourself… your-" he swallows thickly, "-your breasts."

"I did." She whispers, rocking into his hand. She feels as if her nerves are on fire, clenching around his finger.

He pumps his index steadily into her, right up to the knuckle then drawing out to the tip before plunging in again, circling the sensitive knot every three or so strokes, creating a delicious tension in her abdomen.

His eyes don't stray from hers, watching as she struggles to maintain her control. She tilts her hips down, so her wetness slides against his cock, and he emits a long, drawn-out groan. It twitches underneath her, but remains only half-hard.

"I was so…" his voice cracks and his expression turns dark, furious.

Wendy gives him a smirk of her own. A sign of weakness. "So…?" she prods, smugly.

He presses his thumb down, harsh, against the bundle of nerves, and her hips twist upwards at the ambiguity between pain and pleasure. It sends shockwaves through her, and she has to bite her lip to keep from screaming out.

Perhaps she and Peter are not as different as she thought.

"So _hard_." He groans, grinding slowly up against her wet core.

His cock stiffens in response, as if his words were an order. The words are a surrender, an admission of her influence over him. Her returning grin is sharp and grating.

Something deliciously warm, so different to the electric white-hot sensation she'd felt before, unfurls in her belly and she gives in to the insistent rocking of his member against her core, rolling her hips and leaning forward to kiss him.

The kiss is as slow and lazy as their hips, a hot, wet slide of lips and tongue. It's still a game. A competition.

He swirls his fingers until she sighs against his tongue. She reaches around and pumps his cock until he moans into her mouth.

Wendy comes gently this time, slowly, shuddering and thrusting against Peter's hands. White lights burst behind her eyelids- when did she close them?- and she whimpers out a cry, breaking the kiss. He watches her throw her head back, and leans forward to suckle on her exposed throat.

She flicks her thumb once, twice, three times over the head of his cock and he follows shortly after, the thick fluid painting their thighs, her fingers. She wipes them on the grass.

She meets his gaze. He looks dizzy, fatigued, but content. She leans close, her lips brushing against his ear, and whispers, "I win."

He scowls, his contentedness shattering in the wake of loss, but then it is replaced by a smirk. "Maybe," he muses, leaning back slowly to lie on the ground with her trapped against his chest, "we should have a rematch."

Wendy tries to roll away from him, but he winds his arms around her. She lies in the cage of his arms, her head pillowed on his chest and her legs tangled with his. It doesn't feel much like a game anymore, but she isn't about to let him disconcert her. "Later." She says, and digs her fingers into the bruise on his chest.

Peter hisses at the pain, tugs sharply on the strand of her hair he's wound around his finger, but doesn't say anything.

Idly, through the fog of sleep, she wonders when she became as much a part of Neverland as any of the Lost Boys, perhaps even more so- she is not Wendy Darling of London society, any more. She hasn't been for a very long time.

Wendy wonders which version of herself is more real- the one who is sweet and kind, who lived for thirteen years, or the one who bites where she should soothe, who bares herself for all to see but is _never_ weak, who has lived ever since Peter declared that she would stay.

She knows which one she prefers.

She lets her eyes slip closed.

Around them, the forest _sings_.


End file.
